


The Night Shift

by Ria Talla (ronia)



Series: One Quarter of the Stars [2]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Holiday Special (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Cantina, F/F, Gen, Jawas (Star Wars), Recreational Drug Use, Slice of Life, Stormtrooper Culture, Tatooine (Star Wars), rebellion era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-10
Updated: 2019-03-10
Packaged: 2019-11-14 16:53:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18056405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ronia/pseuds/Ria%20Talla
Summary: Ackmena, Rebellion Era/Original TrilogyThe shift change was planned for the mid-evening lull. Wuher usually worked through the tail end of moisture farmers and bantha herders coming in for a drink before dark. They were the ones heading far enough out of town that they had to get their drinking done before the suns set, or they'd be stumbling back home as the Sand People crept out. In about twenty minutes, the night crowd would kick in, with drink orders coming in almost faster than she could pour them.





	The Night Shift

Ackmena  
2 ABY

"Well?"

Ackmena chuckled – she couldn't help it. The man actually sounded hopeful. "What do you think?"

Wuher let out a snarl, and slammed his hands hard against the bartop, making two Tatooine sunsets shake in their glasses. The two Sullustans on the other side of the bar, however, didn't so much as glance up – any regulars in this place were used to Wuher's temper.

"We haven't had a raise in three seasons!"

"And I told him that." She looked away, and tied back her long gray hair, watching her smudged, upside-down reflection in one of the taps. "You think anyone can change that Wookiee's mind?"

"He listens to you."

She shook her head. "Clock out, Wuher."

He was still grumbling as he walked past her, and only grumbled louder when she called after him, "Have a good night!"

The shift change was planned for the mid-evening lull. Wuher usually worked through the tail end of moisture farmers and bantha herders coming in for a drink before dark. They were the ones heading far enough out of town that they had to get their drinking done before the suns set, or they'd be stumbling back home as the Sand People crept out. In about twenty minutes, the night crowd would kick in, with drink orders coming in _almost_ faster than she could pour them. Chalmun needed another tender, a couple of servers like there had been before, but he couldn't really afford what he had anymore.

Ackmena pulled out a brown cloth from under the bar, and tied it around the waist of her pale blue dress. First, she surveyed the booths. They were nearly empty, as were most of the tables. When there weren't crowds, customers usually stayed by the bar, unless what they really wanted was a private conversation. A valachord, drums, and two valahorns were resting in the stage area, but the band was missing, giving the place a sense of quiet that wouldn’t last. The band would be back before the conversation got too loud. And even Ackmena couldn't call that just a luxury – a little music kept the place bearable.

A Trandoshan roared for her attention. "Right, you don't have to yell. What can I get you?"

Five minutes later, after she'd broken open two bottles of Elba beer for a pair of Ithorian pilots, she turned to see Wuher sitting across the bar. Ackmena wiped her hands on the cloth at her waist, and walked over to him. "I thought I told you to go home."

"That bantha herder Orker brought in something before you came." He nodded toward the back. "I left it by the refrigerator unit."

Ackmena raised her eyebrows. "Well, how thoughtful of you."

"You know they're not supposed be doing that–"

Ackmena rolled her eyes, and stepped away from the bar. She grabbed a pitcher from the shelf beneath, and walked to the taps to fill it with Lothal ale. "You know how the farmers get."

"It's not my problem, Ackmena," he huffed. "I want a bigger cut this time."

She pulled out a tumbler, and set it on the bar in front of Wuher, filling it halfway with the light brown ale from her pitcher. "There's your tip. Now drink and make way for the paying customers."

 

The first evening rush was beginning to slow. The band was settling into a set of pleasant, forgettable tunes just over the quiet conversation, and Ackmena was taking the down time to wipe down sand from the bar and taps.

And then the Jawas came in. Dozens of them. Ackmena had walked to a tap in the back and returned two minutes later to find them rushing in, lining up along the bar, gathering around tables. There were a handful of Jawa regulars, but this was something else, an entire sandcrawler must have pulled into Mos Eisley for the night. A few other customers look annoyed at the new arrivals, and some picked up their drinks and headed to booths, or edged out of the way.

Ackmena just moved to start taking orders. Unlike some customers who wanted to talk her ear off before finally mentioning a drink, Jawas were usually quick and to the point. They always paid in full, and often tipped well. They also actually had something interesting to say once in a while, which wasn't the case when it came to her more talkative regulars. Over the high-pitched Jawa voices, the band picked up again, playing something faster paced to match the changing mood. And even with only Ackmena sweeping back and forth from behind the bar, chaos was avoided, as she was prompt in delivering mugs of ardees and pitchers of hubba juice mixed with rum.

Maybe twenty minutes after the influx, three Jawas approached the bar. Ackmena was just catching her breath as she looked down at the three pairs of glowing eyes staring up at her from underneath three dusty brown hoods.

"Something I can do for you?"

The three nodded, and the one to the right spoke, in a quiet but still high-pitched voice. It was a phrase that Ackmena translated in her head as something like, _off the menu_.

Ackmena looked up, glancing around the cantina. She didn't spot any empty mugs or glasses, no one trying to catch her eye. Most still around were Jawas now, holding loud conversations that only got louder as the band tried to be heard over them. Maybe that was their plan – it wasn't a bad one, to keep the room distracted.

"I don't think there's much in the back we don't have up front," she said, "but I can give you a look if you like."

In the years before, moisture farmers and Jawas wouldn’t have needed to funnel goods and credits through a cantina. The Hutts generally left them to their low-level trade, and focused on bigger sellers for protection fees or tribute. And when the Empire first arrived, some land was seized, some streets were patrolled, but they hadn't seemed any more interested than the Republic had been, and had left things mostly to the Hutts. But in the last two years, changes had swept through the dusty streets of Mos Eisley. And, if what they’d heard was true, most of Tatooine. Old markets were shut down, and reopened under the control of new corporations, restrictions were tightened on trade and new taxes and fees imposed. The reasoning given was to stop the flow of dangerous goods to subversives – rumor had it some trade on Tatooine had led to Imperial secrets getting to the Rebellion.

But it also meant more credits to these new corps that all seemed to be friendly with the Empire, or the Hutts. And it drove trade underground, and into places like Chalmun’s cantina. The cantina took a cut, but it was still much cheaper than running goods through the open marketplace, and with fewer questions asked.

Ten minutes later, the Jawas were returning to their table with some used droid parts packed in their sack, and Ackmena was quietly folding a belt of credits under the bar, before she moved to refresh their glasses.

 

Always around midnight, a few droids wandered into the place. They seemed to wait until well into Ackmena's shift, perhaps in case she ever ran late or missed a shift. (She never did.) Of course, Chalmun's cantina didn't serve droids no matter who was behind the counter. The only things a droid could be served was a hot oil bath or maybe a clean charge port, neither of which they had on tap. But Ackmena didn't throw them out like Wuher did. They never bothered the customers, and never approached the bar, so she let them be. She would have even liked a server droid around, but Chalmun wouldn't want to spend the credits, and Wuher would quit on the spot.

A couple of dingy-looking astromechs had rolled in tonight, and like the droids usually did, they just slid silently into a corner by the stage, their visual receptors turned to the band. For Ackmena, midnight was just another busy hour, and so she wasn't paying much attention to the band, or the droids. When it was this busy, regulars knew not to bother trying to talk to her beyond making an order and settling up. There'd only be a few curt words, usually "I have customers," before she'd be gone.

Then about ten minutes after midnight, there was a commotion near the door. Ackmena usually ignored these, as Tork could take care of himself. He was a muscular Pantoran with a pinched, dour face who could wrestle away a blaster faster than Ackmena could pour a Spice Runner. But this time she was setting a glass of Tatooine white on a table close to the door, and the voices that carried in from the night weren't a mix of Tork's aggravated shouts and some drunken protest. The other voice was small, high-pitched, and insistent. Ackmena wiped her hands off on her cloth, and stepped up to the doorway to get a look.

" _Scram, womprat_ ," Tork snarled in Huttese, as the little Nautolan tried to dart past him. He grabbed the boy's arm, and threw him hard into the dust, hard enough that the boy cried out. As he pulled himself up again, Ackmena stepped into the doorway, a hand on her hip.

“Is there a problem out here?”

Tork nodded at the boy. “Fifth time tonight I’ve caught him trying to sneak in.”

Ackmena looked the boy up and down, over his dusty, loose-fitting tunic, enormous black eyes curved in resentment, and his pale green skin that looked a little grayish around his short headtails. “You got money, kid?”

The boy looked to her and nodded, reaching into his tunic and pulling out a few dirty credit chips between his hands. Ackmena looked to Tork.

“He’s a paying customer. What’s the problem?”

Tork raised his gold eyes in surprise. "Kid can't order, he must be ten –"

"I'm _twelve_ –"

Ackmena waved her hand. "Then he'll get some bantha milk." She looked back at the boy and jerked her head toward the doorway. "Come on, get in."

The boy walked cautiously by Tork, watching him like he might get grabbed again, and the moment he reached the threshold, he broke into a run, straight inside. Ackmena folded her arms as she watched him.

"What're you letting a kid in for?" Tork asked her. "It's no place for him."

She turned back to him. "You think it's better out here?"

The boy was waiting for her at the bar when she returned, the stool so low his shoulders barely reached the bar top. He started to speak, but Ackmena interrupted –

"Ah ah, let's see those credit chips again first."

The boy pulled out his handful of credits again, and dropped them on the counter. Ackmena lifted them into her own palm, holding them close to her eyes, and under the lights. Scuffed up a little, but no sign of counterfeit. Definitely stolen. She took two of the chips, and returned three back into his small hands. Then, without speaking, she moved away.

“I want Jawa beer!” he called after her.

“You’re not getting it,” she called back. But bantha milk and Nautolans might not mix, either, so she chose something safer, a glass of cold Kopi tea. The boy’s tendrils curled in skepticism, but he picked up the orange glass in both hands and took a sip.

“Okay?” Ackmena asked. The boy nodded, the glass still in his hands. “Okay,” she repeated.

She left him for a few minutes, to refill a few glasses and collect on some tabs. The boy stayed on his barstool, drinking the tea, his eyes wandering the room, though whenever she glanced back at him, he looked away. Once things were under control, she returned to the bar, across from him again, and leaned forward, crossing her arms over the bar top.

“What’re you doing here, kid?”

The boy kept looking at his now half-empty glass. "I found something."

"Did you?" She wasn't really asking. "Something you want to share?"

The glass tapped down on the counter, and he turned his head down, reaching into his tunic again. He must have tucked this away very carefully, as it took him nearly a minute to draw out a small pouch made of black cloth. The cloth looked smooth and much richer than anything worthwhile on this planet, but the boy opened the pouch and out of it toppled four small chunks of bright orange crystal.

Ackmena straightened, and shot another glance around the cantina. Satisfied no one was interested or in need of a drink, she turned her attention back down to the bar. "May I?"

The boy fidgeted nervously, his head tails twitching, but he nodded. She picked up one of the crystals between her fingers, holding it up to the light.

"Guerrerite," she said, as she set the crystal back down again. "Useful. I can do something with it. What's your price?"

The boy wasn't much of a haggler. He started imaginatively high, and was quick to drop too low when she showed even a little hesitation. But it wasn't like he could pretend he didn't need the money. Even an inexperienced trader could have stolen the goods right from under him, and plenty wouldn't have bothered to pay the boy even a pity price. But it wasn't easy to be kind on Tatooine.

Tonight, Ackmena had time. She worked the boy to a fair price, then handed him a sheaf of credits before gathering up the crystals. When she returned –

"Can I have Jawa beer now?"

"No." The Gamorrean two seats down from the boy had waved her for another round of Tevraki whiskey, and she topped off his glass before returning to the boy. "Are you a slave?"

The boy shook his head, and she added, "Well, save your money for something useful, like getting yourself off this rock. You don't belong in the desert, kid."

She did, without charge, refill his cold tea. He looked up at her, the lights of the cantina bright in his large eyes.

"Are you from here?"

Ackmena busied herself with wiping down glasses. "No."

"Where are you from?"

"Nowhere you need to hear about." She looked up, and nodded toward the booths. "Now why don't you go find yourself a place to sleep and be out of here before midday tomorrow. Believe me, you don't want the Wookiee finding you in here."

At first, the boy stayed on the barstool. But when she didn't look back to him, he picked up his glass, and started to lower himself down to the floor. His feet reached the floor, and Ackmena closed her eyes. "Wait."

She set aside her glass and cloth, and leaned down, rustling through the shelves under the bar. She emerged with a light-yellow kerchief that had been tied into a small bag. Ackmena unwound the tie, and revealed inside a handful of blue butter cookies in the shape of bantha horns.

"Go out the sewers when you leave," she said, retying the kerchief and handing it down to him. "Tell the rodents down there I sent you, and they'll show you the way."

 

“Sybegh’s going flat.”

The remark was from a human regular, Orin the old shuttle pilot, as Ackmena refilled his drink. “Maybe you’re losing your ears,” she answered.

He was right, actually. The Besalisk valachord player did slip flatter the later she and her band played into the night. But she wasn’t about to say it out loud - four arms was more than Ackmena wanted to keep track of. Orin muttered a curse, and picked up his glass, and Ackmena returned the bottle to the shelf by the taps.

As she stepped back to the bar, a new contingent arrived. Like the Jawas, the group broke up the regular commotion of the bar. The band’s song stopped, the conversation went quiet. It always happened, despite that now, this happened every night. There was always a moment to wait, to hold a breath, and to see how their coins fell.

And then the Stormtroopers took off their helmets, gathered together in booths and around tables, and started talking amongst themselves. They were just coming off-duty, and rather than head back to the barracks, this particular unit liked to stop in for a drink first. It was against regulations - for a while after the crackdown, after Alderaan, there had been no Stormtrooper business at all. But steadily, they’d started to sneak back in - and night patrols through the cantina became less frequent. Chalmun paid the Hutt protection, paid the Imperial taxes, and no “buyout” had come for them yet.

And maybe because they were breaking protocol, these Stormtroopers rarely caused any trouble. They drank, listened to the band, and kept to themselves. No recruitment, voluntary or not, no bribe demands, no sudden arrests. Their blasters stayed at their sides, and they smiled when they looked at Ackmena.

She didn’t smile back, but then, no one expected her to. Drinks were ordered, glasses were filled, a customer was a customer.

There were nights when she’d cleaned blood and limbs and even a few corpses out of this place, with nothing more than a few extra credits in her pocket to show for it. Those nights were fewer with the Stormtroopers around, but only because they cleaned up after themselves. Ackmena was smart enough to know that. Yet without their helmets, these were young, fresh-faced, and they smiled, and she poured their drinks. And when she was done, she walked to the corner booth where the Nautolan boy was sleeping, untied the cloth around her waist, and draped it over one side, to shield him from view.

She returned to the bar, to one of the troopers waiting for her. He had curly black hair that had been bent down by his helmet, and he shifted from foot to foot, that helmet swinging loosely in his hand by his side.

"You need something?" Ackmena asked. The trooper's eyes darted back to his table, where the others were sipping their drinks and pretending not to watch.

"I heard – maybe you could help me."

You would think only an idiot would try dealing with Troopers. And it _was_ tricky. They could be trying to meet their arrest quotas by luring foolish sellers. Even if they weren't, if their superiors caught them with their contraband, there was no chance they would protect their sources. On the other hand, their credits were worth the same as anyone else's, and having a handful of local Troopers on your side could have its advantages.

Ackmena raised her hand toward the taps. "There's plenty of help here."

There were a number of factors to reading a Trooper. His company (sneaking in after hours, curious but keeping their distance), his posture (nervous, shifting, yet mostly keeping his eyes on her), his credits (dusty and smudged with use, rather than gleaming new). And when it came down to it, these Imperials were never so imaginative. Ackmean didn't take them at their word, but she did trust her deep well of experience in reading a customer's needs.

So the Trooper returned to his table with a couple holos and a pair of bantha fur socks, and Ackmena was folding away a sizeable length of credits. Above all, most of these Troopers were rather desperate, and didn't know how to haggle, either.

 

The first sign of the impending last call was when the band stopped playing. They usually got a soft patter of applause as they finished their last song, and once in a while a customer felt generous enough to throw some credits their way. But reliably, as the musicians packed up their instruments, there was a last rush at the bar. Once more bottle or glass before the cantina closed down, if only for a few hours.

The late hour also brought in a final wave of arrivals, usually pilots and passengers who had just touched down at the spaceport. Some preferred to arrive on Tatooine deep in the night. Fewer Stormtroopers patrolling the streets, more time to move cargo before the heat set in. Not much else operated in Mos Eisley so late, and the cantina was always a good place to get the lay of the land after setting boots to dust.

"Forty minutes," Ackmena reminded a particularly chatty customer, leaving him to his drink as she rounded back along the counter. She stepped to the front of the bar, scanning the room, the musicians snapping their instruments cases and heaving them up, a couple lingering Jawas in one corner, nearly everyone else drinking alone. And then the tap of boots as another entered the cantina – Ackmena raised her eyes to see a Zygerrian woman, yellow eyes and light brown fur, in a black jacket and trousers, a blaster holstered a her waist. She had a small, amused smile, it seemed, for everything, and she met Ackmena's eyes as she crossed the room toward the bar.

Ackmena was already working. By the time the Zygerrian reached her, she was finishing pouring a glass of wine so dark it was nearly black. She recorked the bottle, and slide the glass across the bar.

"You always remember."

"Of course I do." Ackmena nodded for her to sit down. "How's your business, Celes?"

"Plenty." Celes lifted the glass to her lips, taking a very small sip, and then swirling the glass gently between her fingers. "Plenty of contracts, anyway. War's good for business."

Ackmena snorted. "Maybe yours."

"Mmm." The sound Celes made was something half-way between a snarl and a purr. "A woman who knows her poisons, she's never going broke."

"Maybe." Ackmena repeated. She moved away briefly to collect an empty glass and credits from a departing patron. "But she could use a raise."

Celes set down her glass. "I think that's something I can help you with." She reached into an inside pocket in her jacket, and quickly drew out a small draw-string pouch that fit comfortably in the palm of her hand. "Took it off my last bounty," she said, and tossed across the bar. Ackmena caught it easily. "Speaking of poisons."

The pouch was made from a rough green cloth, and Ackmena squeezed it gently between her fingers. No crystals this time, that was for sure. She set it down on the counter, and carefully undid the drawstrings.

Inside – it wasn't what she was expecting. Maybe this was why Celes had made her entrance so late, it provided a little more cover. Ackmena glanced around, then quickly lifted the pouch again, and took a deep sniff of its contents.

"Yes," she said, quietly. "I think we can do something with this."

 

Tork left her at the hoverbus. Ackmena always strapped a blaster to her ankle before heading into town, concealed by her long skirts, but she appreciated the company all the same. As long as she'd been here, the streets of Mos Eisley were only more treacherous after dark. It was also why she used the hoverbus, rather than take a speeder herself. More company meant less chance of ambush. The drivers took loosely planned routes that they arranged with their customers – hers, a human named Klyn, met her about a klick from the cantina, outside an old, abandoned junkshop.

When the hoverbus arrived, Tork nodded once to her, and disappeared into the dark.

The bus was safer, but slower. Picking up passengers, letting off others, and Ackmena's home was among the most distant from the city. Fewer and fewer lights broke up the dark stretches of desert as they traveled farther into the outskirts of Mos Eisley, and the cliffs and dunes beyond were only barely visible in the dim light off the moons. It was nearly an hour after they'd closed up before Klyn pulled up to a single house, set along one side of a moderately steep desert ridge. From the outside, it looked like only a small dome set into the sand, and the single lamp hanging from a post at one side was turned off. No one so far from town would keep a lamp lit outside at night.

Inside, though, every light was on. Ackmena squinted as she stepped down the steps from the entrance and into the main room. It was large, and also domed shape, with a small kitchen on one side, a collection of chairs to the other, and at the back, Sorschi's workspace. Every light meant the ceiling lights in the kitchen, the lamps among the chairs, the strung bulbs that canopied the room, and the glaring work lamp on Sorschi's desk. Sorschi rarely stayed in her "space" – there were batteries strewn along the floor, optic lenses and audio receivers of different makes piled on her desk, wiring heaped over chairs.

And her in her hands, at that very moment, were a small circuit board and tuning stylus. But Sorschi had heard her come in, and was already rising to greet her.

"Good morning, dear." Her hands were full, but Sorschi put her wrists on Ackmena's shoulders and quickly rose to kiss her. She was only slightly shorter, her hair white and clipped very short, and was always in the same sort of clothes – a loose tunic and trousers, inevitably smudged with oil or dusted with carbon residue. To keep her hours with her wife, Sorschi also stayed up during the nights, and was often still sleeping when Ackmena left for her shift. "How was your night?"

"Slow." Ackmena smiled at her, her first of the night. "How about yours?"

Sorschi whisked back to her desk, putting down the circuit board and stylus. "I'm almost done with that R5. She needs a new logic board."

"She _needs_ one?" Ackmena asked. "Or you just want to build a new one."

Sorschi turned back, smiling, and shrugged. "Did you eat my cookies?"

"I ate all of them," she answered, moving to hang her bag on a hook near the entrance. "I hope you have more."

"I have some." Ackmena was still rustling through her hanging bag, and didn't hear Sorschi coming back toward her until she felt her wife's arms wrap tight around her waist, head pressed against her shoulder. "Want a drink?"

" _No_." Ackmena chuckled. " _Anything_ but that." She kept going through her bag, until she found a very small pouch, and held it out to her wife behind her.

"I brought you something."

Sorschi looked up, and released her to take the pouch. She opened it, reaching in with just her thumb, and a moment later, she was crushing a few bits of leaf into a blood red dust between her fingers.

"Is this namana leaf?"

"It better be," Ackmena said, turning back to face her. "I paid enough for it."

Sorschi looked down into the pouch for a moment, then closed her hand around it.

"I have an idea."

Her idea turned out to involve some welding and electro-sawing and a thin bit of tubing. Ackmena had nodded off in a chair by the time she was done, and Sorschi shook her awake. "Let's go outside."

Not a good idea at night, but by now, the sky was already a pale, grayish blue. They climbed together, finding familiar footing in the rock and dust. One sun had just barely touched the horizon as they reached the cliff's peak, sending a streak of gold over the empty stretches of desert that spread out around them. They settled down on the other side of the ridge, and Sorschi pulled out the makeshift pipe.

"You can still get away with things like this?" Sorschi asked. She lit the leaf in the pipe, and handed it off to Ackmena first. Ackmena shrugged.

"As much as you can. The Empire's more interested in your kind of goods than mine."

The first sun rose higher, and the light along the dunes spread, a line of deep red cutting across the low sky as the second sun prickled along the horizon. It didn't take long for the namana to hit, with a light, sudden giddiness that made Ackmena smile again, and also made it hard to stop.

"You should do something better," Sorschi said, not for the first time. But with the namana, it could be a joke. She leaned her head into Ackmena's shoulder, and started giggling. "You could sing in the band."

It was ridiculous, and Ackmena was laughing anyway. "I'm not singing!"

"You could sing, and I'll make you a bartending droid!" Sorschi exhaled a small cloud of dark pink smoke. "It can be _our_ cantina."

"I don't want another cantina, _chik_."

Sorschi giggled again, and handed the pipe back to Ackmena, as Ackmena put her arm around her, pulling her closer in. "What do you want?" Sorschi asked.

Ackmena took the pipe, and inhaled deeply. The second sun was halfway risen by now.

**Author's Note:**

> _Ackmena –_   
>  _I'm never passing up the opportunity for 'Bea Arthur was technically in Star Wars.' And you're even canon now! Enjoy your fictional space pot, I'm pretty sure the writers of the Holiday Special were._
> 
>  
> 
> In case you have better taste than I do, Ackmena was a skit from the Star Wars Holiday Special, and was recanonized by being mentioned in the _From a Certain Point of View_ short stories, which also mentioned she had a wife named Sorschi. And yes, namana was in the Legends continuity and was sort of like this but not really. I just really enjoyed the image of these two getting high in the desert.


End file.
